02/28/2026
It started with a recipe box.
I found my great-grandma Nora Beckius’ sourdough recipe tucked inside this old tin. The cards were worn, handwritten, stained with time. She worked at the North Platte Canteen during WWII feeding soldiers passing through by train. Later she ran Merricks Steak House in North Platte.
I never got to meet her, but I know her.
Every single person in my family describes her the same way: The sweetest lady you’d ever meet, and absolute hell on wheels.
She let her pet cow, Babydoll, sit at the dining table.
She screeched around corners in her prized pink Cadillac with a Lucky in between her fingers. She ran kitchens. She fed people. She did life her way.
I got my s***k from her. The feral streak, too.
Her sourdough recipe came from a time before food was engineered for shelf life. Before convenience replaced craft. Before preservatives and shortcuts became normal.
Just flour. Water. Salt. Time.
Real ingredients. Real patience. Real food.
Sourdough demands intention. It refuses to be rushed. It teaches you to slow down and trust the process.
Wanting to feel connected to a woman I never met, and already finding therapy in baking, an idea was born.
The Feral Loaf isn’t just bread.
It’s legacy with backbone.
It’s sweetness with a little chaos.
It’s real food made the old way.
Feral women don’t quietly follow recipes.
They feed people loudly.
They build things.
They leave flour on the counter and stories behind.
They start cultures, and bake bread.